


now the moments are missing

by nilyn (escherzo)



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Angst, Drug Use, F/M, Prostitution, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-02
Updated: 2008-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-18 15:37:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/nilyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I hope hell’s nice,” she says after a long silence, spreading her legs wider, arms out at her sides. “Better than this?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	now the moments are missing

“Hey, you awake?”  
  
Mikey pads into the church with bare feet, past the dry, dusty basin of holy water, the faded, worn carpet, the uneven patches of bright light where the stained glass is broken, giving way to the evening sun streaming in. His call echoes in the silence, and then there’s a creak above him, dust sprinkling down from the low ceiling above his head. He smiles.  
  
The stairs to the choir loft won’t last another year, and he treads them cautiously, testing each step before he puts weight on it. The railing is long gone.  
  
At the top, he takes off his glasses, rubs them on his shirt to wipe off the fallen dust. It’s hard to see, the shadows are growing as the sun sets, and the last time the church had working electricity was years ago.  
  
“Gee?” he asks, uncertain, and he sees the movement before he can make out the features. His sister, wide-framed but bony, eyes hollow, stringy black hair long and falling in her face so he can’t see her eyes. She has a bottle, half-empty, cradled in the crook of her arm. Drinking again. He wants to sigh but she’s sober enough to sit up and look at him, to realize who he is, and that’s a small blessing. Blessing. It’s ironic, considering where they are.  
  
“Welcome home,” she says, smiling clumsily, pushing her hair away from her face. It’s oily enough that it stays in any direction she pushes it. He can’t remember the last time either of them had a proper shower.  
  
“Some home,” he answers automatically, the same thing he says every time, settling down in the mass of blankets on the choir loft floor that serve as a bed for the both of them. She rubs her nose and sniffles, pulls him closer with bleary eyes.  
  
He scoots in beside her, side to side, heads leaning together, and offers the pack of smokes in his back pocket. They’re not new, any of them, scavenged off the sidewalks so they’re all sizes, no attention paid to the type. It doesn’t matter. She’s too drunk to notice or care, and they can’t afford the real thing anyway. He has to help her light them so she won’t burn herself. Like a child.  
  
They’ve never talked about how they ended up like this, barefoot and living in sweat and grime, the dust of an abandoned church in a small town. They’ve never talked about when Gee stopped working and stopped drawing and stopped caring, or when Mikey let himself be pulled down with her into her downward spiral. The other part he blames on being drunk (both of them, sometimes), but he knows it’s not true.  
  
Gee reaches for him again, but it’s not a sisterly touch anymore. Her hand is around his side, but her fingers are pushing under the waistband of his jeans, sliding easy because they’re falling off him.  
  
That’s the rest. He knows he can’t escape going to Hell for it, but they’ve done everything together for as long as he can remember. It only makes sense that this would count, too.  
  
(Not everything. He never wanted the pills she took in the last days before she lost her job, or the ones after, or the cocaine that took the last of the money he had saved.)  
  
“Not tonight,” he says quietly, draws her fingers out. “You’re drunk. Don’t.”  
  
“’m always drunk,” she says, and he closes his eyes like it’ll block out the truth of what she’s saying. “You didn’t mind last time. Or the time before that.”  
  
“Stop.” He squeezes his eyes shut tighter. “It’s.”  
  
Gee looks around the dusty, faded church, eyes lingering on the stained glass windows, the crucifix above the altar, the elaborate scene etched onto the ceiling, patterns and fat cherubic angels and men with long, flowing robes. Her eyes are clearer than he can remember seeing.   
  
“The angels are watching,” she intones, eyes slipping shut. “Pay attention in church, Mikey, the angels are watching. Don’t get into trouble while we’re gone, the angels are watching. You shouldn’t cheat on your tests, it doesn’t matter if you get away with it, the angels are watching. Right?”  
  
Mikey looks away, hands fisted into the worn cotton of the blankets. “Go to sleep,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. “Did you take anything today?”  
  
“We-ell,” Gee says, slurring singsong, “this bottle was full this morning. It’s, um,” She takes a long swig of it. “vodka. And I got these pills that were just. Fuck, you should try them, little brother. Top of the fucking world. Make you want to fuck until you can’t see straight.”   
  
“What were they?” Mikey’s stomach twists nastily. He doesn’t need to ask how she got the money for the pills, because he knows. He knows what she’s willing to do if she gets desperate enough, because sometimes people show up at the abandoned church and it’s not to scrawl graffiti on the walls or scavenge. Because sometimes the choir loft smells like sex and it’s not because he and Gee have been messing around.  
  
“Don’t know,” Gee says, shrugging. “Does it matter?” She reaches towards the cranny where she keeps her extra pills but Mikey slaps his hand over hers before she can reach for another. She looks up at him with such desperation in her eyes he wants to be sick.   
  
“I won’t,” she says finally, head lowered. “You. You could tuck me in,” and her lips quirk up into a funny half-smile.  
  
“Gee,” Mikey says warningly, but he does it anyway, coaxes her to lay down and settles down beside her, pulls the sheet over the two of them. His back hurts, pressed into the wood, but she’s warm at his side and he can live with a backache. He has bigger problems than that.   
  
Gee rolls over onto her side to look at him. “You could give me a good night kiss,” she suggests finally, like they’re children sharing the bed because they’re afraid of the dark on their own. He wishes it was still that simple.   
  
“One kiss,” Mikey whispers, swallowing hard. “And that’s it.” He knows, though, that it won’t be. Once he agrees to any of it he can’t (doesn’t want to) stop. And Gee is always the one who asks first.  
  
The sheets rustle and the floorboards creak dangerously and she and Mikey are face to face, features dim outlines in the late evening light.  
  
Gee leans in first, like she always does, lips bitter-sweet with the taste of ash and vodka and strange pills on them. It’s so familiar by now it’s almost frightening, the things Mikey has grown to associate with kissing his sister.  
  
Mikey’s gentle even as she pushes things further, opens his mouth under hers as she snags his lip between her teeth, pulls him closer only to push him back onto his back, grin on her face. He just smiles back, cups a hand to the side of her face, stroking down it, letting her do what she wants.  
  
He can pretend she’s sober as she’s doing this if he closes his eyes, blocks out the way her hands tremble even though it’s not the first time, not even close.   
  
He lets her tug his jeans down, not even bothering to undo them because he’s thin enough that he doesn’t need to anymore. She traces the sharp cut of his hipbones, leans down and kisses them, whispers, “You don’t eat enough” against the sensitive skin there.   
  
“Neither do you,” he points out, lips ghosting over her cheekbones, her jawline, the hollows above her collarbones. He doesn’t know when she lost her pants, or if she had them on in the first place, but she’s naked against him now, bare skin on bare skin, and the only warmth in the cool of the church is from each other.   
  
Gee smiles faintly, arches up under Mikey’s tongue and teeth against her nipples, buzzing against sensitive skin, moans softly like it’ll matter if someone hears it.  
  
It doesn’t. They stopped looking like each other years ago.  
  
She crosses herself before she lays back, bizarrely reverent, words Mikey can’t even hear on her lips. And then she lays herself down on top of the blankets, spreads her legs and looks up at him, eyes dark.   
  
Mikey squints around in the dark for the box of condoms (the one expense they’re not doing without, not with what they are) and Gee grins oddly, stares at him.  
  
“What?” he asks, settling himself down on top of her, hands braced on either side of her chest.  
  
“It would be sorta appropriate,” she says, laughing hollowly, no humor behind the sound. “To not find them and then have me get pregnant. Your druggie, alcoholic bum of a big sister getting knocked up by you. And we live in a church. Fuck.”  
  
“Gee. Stop it.” Mikey pulls her close, wrapping his arms around her back to hold her tight. “Don’t talk like that.”  
  
She shakes her head and says nothing, reaches behind her and pulls the box out from under a pile of blankets. “There’s only two left,” she murmurs, peering inside.   
  
“Two?” Mikey frowns. “We. Fuck. We had eight yesterday. How—“ he hates asking, he doesn’t want to know, he never wants to know about that even if he knows she doesn’t do it very often. “How many people—“  
  
Gee smiles almost sadly, fingers trailing down her stomach, thumbing at her hipbones, remembering. “Today? Five. But one wanted a second go. I guess I must just be pretty.”   
  
“Yeah,” Mikey manages, and there’s a lump in his throat he has to fight against. “You’re too pretty.” He wishes she didn’t have to do it, even as some dark part of his mind says it’s because he’s not enough for her. He knows that isn’t it. It’s for her drugs, and that’s almost worse, because that, at least, he knows  _is_  true.  
  
“Come on and fuck me already, flatterer,” she hisses, urging him back far enough so she can roll a condom onto him.  
  
Mikey doesn’t need more encouragement than that, as much as he wants to pretend he doesn’t want it, every time, he does. He’s hard as hell from this, desperate, and it’s sick, it’s so sick, and he’s breathing heavily into the still silence of the church.   
  
He pushes in and her voice breaks on a ragged groan, tightening around him, eyes slipping shut. “Yeah,” she whispers, licking her lips to moisten them. “You’re such a-- _mmh_ \--good little brother, christ.” She strokes down the length of his spine, sweatslick, moving with him as he thrusts forward again.   
  
“Good little brothers don’t do this,” Mikey says, close enough to be breathing Gee’s air but not quite closing the distance to kiss her. She giggles breathlessly, scrapes her teeth against the side of his neck.   
  
“Probably not,” she muses, breath shaky and uneven, and she hooks her legs around his waist, pulls him deeper with a little “Ha _ah_.”  
  
It’s almost too dark to make out her features now, so Mikey holds her tighter so he can feel her instead, floor creaking rhythmically as they move together. Gee’s eyes are closed and she breathes in shaky, whimpering gasps, pulling Mikey into her, nails digging into his back until he gets the hint, fucks her harder, steady, until he can’t hold on anymore.   
  
Gee comes first, and Mikey follows in the next heartbeat, stuttering to a stop inside her. They lay there, wrapped up in each other for a long moment until Mikey has to pull out, away, get rid of the condom (throwing it into the plastic bag they have against the wall for that).  
  
She’s sprawled out when he turns back to her, naked and peaceful, eyes closed, and he leans down to kiss her closed eyelids, gentle. She smiles, doesn’t open them.   
  
“I hope hell’s nice,” she says after a long silence, spreading her legs wider, arms out at her sides. “Better than this?” She finally opens her eyes, closing a hand around the half-empty bottle of vodka. Mikey wants to stop her, knock her hand away, but he can’t make himself do it. They’re both weak in their own way.  
  
“Maybe,” he says quietly, watching her drink. “I hope so.”  
  
“Are you going to leave?” she asks, looking around at the blankets strewn around them on the wood floor, the familiar sweatandcome smell in the air.   
  
“I don’t have anywhere to go.” Mikey crawls over to her, pulls the sheet over the two of them again. This time, they’re naked.   
  
She sighs and wraps an arm around him, like she cradles her bottle, because sometimes a girl needs a security blanket or two. “You’d come back if you did, right?” She looks up at him with big eyes heartbreakingly open.  
  
“Of course.” Mikey kisses her again and rests, just a part of the scenery, one more worn and fragile part of the abandoned, breaking church. “I always come back.”

**Author's Note:**

> Not real, don't Google yourself, in my defense I was sixteen at the time.


End file.
